Collected Stories (75 page)

‘How can you kill a baby?’ she said.

‘There are several methods I could suggest …’

What did he remember of their affair? One long conversation – their only real talk – during a party. Later, the girl playing the same jazz records over and over; they were all she could afford. Making love while there was a thunderstorm outside, the branches of the trees striking the windows. It wasn’t long before they ran out of ideal moments.

Now she was unrecognisable to him and lived with her husband, an unemployed alcoholic decorator. For years, Mal had hardly been allowed to see or even speak to the boy, though he contributed to his upkeep. When Wallace was six, Mal was given access to him about twice a year. All day they wandered around overheated shopping malls in the Midlands. Sometimes Mal phoned him, but Wallace never volunteered any information. After several silences, he said he had to go –
Rugrats
was on.

A friend of Mal’s once joked about how fortunate Mal was to have at least one of his kids living elsewhere. Mal had reddened with fury; for a week, this jibe marked his mind. Being a father entailed various duties which he wanted to follow, except that Wallace’s mother prevented them. The word ‘duty’ sounded odd to him. It was as unlikely a word, these days, as ‘moral’ or, to him, ‘spiritual’. He liked to think he had a pragmatic mouth. Despite this, in his feelings, Mal had had to let his son go – giving him to another man, admitting how little there was of him in the boy – and semi-forgetting him. This was aided by the birth of his younger son.

A year ago, Wallace’s mother and her partner had taken a market stall at the weekends, selling home-designed T-shirts. She didn’t like Wallace hanging around the market every weekend. Mal guessed this was the real reason for Wallace’s having to ‘get to know’ his real father, by visiting every three weeks.

Mal was relieved to have got his son back before it was too late. Of course, his wife was afraid of the effect this stranger would have on her family. She argued about the length of time Wallace could stay; she refused to let Wallace share his half-brother’s bedroom. It had taken Mal a week to convert his own work-room into a space for Wallace, with a TV, video, Playstation and music system. Wallace hated the room but stayed in it during the day, though not at night. He had ‘insonia’ and heard moans coming down the chimney. Mal lay awake, hearing Wallace watching movies in the living room at four in the morning.

If Mal thought things were beginning to go well in his life, Wallace was the fate he couldn’t elude. He had welcomed the boy, but the boy was a genius at not being welcomed. Mal liked to say he wanted to sue for less custody. Sometimes Wallace would play football with Mal, or let himself be taken to the cinema. But Wallace’s passion was shopping in London. Mal bought him things to assuage his furious greed: one big thing, it seemed, every day. Wallace had always insisted Mal buy him toys his mother wouldn’t let him have or couldn’t afford: guns, lightsabres, Playstation discs, Gameboy games, videos of horror films. Nevertheless, Mal knew that as soon as he dropped the boy off at his mother’s house, a two-hour drive away, his mobile phone would ring and he would be castigated for the presents, which would be dumped in the basement. The same thing happened if Mal gave him the autographs of movie actors, or film posters and videos.

Now Mal said, ‘I’ll buy you something at the railway station.’

A space opened in Wallace’s distress. ‘Buy me what?’

‘Anything to stop you abusing me and give me some peace.’

‘That’s all you want.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ said Mal.

‘I don’t want to be here.’

‘But we’re going to see a woman called Andrea. It’s very important that you be nice to her.’

‘Why?’

‘She might give me a job and I can earn more money to spend on you.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re too lazy and bad-mannered.’

Mal started to laugh.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You.’

‘I can stop you laughing.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

On his last visit, Wallace had thrown some of Mal’s papers on to the floor and wiped his feet on them; later, he’d held a cushion over his half-brother’s face and punched him. Mal had ripped his belt from his trousers and raised it. His wife cried out and he rushed from the house. Underneath Wallace’s whimpering, moaning and abuse, a child was screaming for help. No one knew what to do, but didn’t someone have to do something? In such circumstances, how did you learn to be a parent?

As it was, Mal drank when the boy was around. Wallace destabilised him in ways he couldn’t grasp, making him believe he was either incompetent and useless or a monster, a feeling which had begin to poison all areas of his life. On his last job, a television serial, his concentration had failed and he had had to do several all-nighters to complete the job. He was afraid that Andrea had heard about this.

At the railway station, Wallace led his father to comics, sweets and drinks. Then Mal obtained sandwiches for both of them, secured a table in one of the cafés and went to get coffee and a beer. On his return, Wallace had disappeared.

Mal waited and drank his beer. Perhaps Wallace had gone to the toilet. After a while, when Wallace’s absence seemed to freeze reality into one stopped moment of horror, Mal had no choice but to gather up their bags and the coffee and shuffle through the shops, toilets, bars and cafés as rapidly as he could, asking strangers if they’d seen a plump kid with a filthy face, wearing a
Beano
shirt.

Wallace was alone at a table, driving a hamburger into his mouth and studying his compass.

Mal sank down. ‘Jesus, I can hardly breathe. If you do that again, I’ll tell your mum.’

‘She already knows you don’t want me around.’

‘Is that what she says?’

‘You never visited me on my birthday.’

‘I wasn’t allowed to.’

Wallace said, ‘I didn’t like the sandwiches you got for me.’

‘I understand. I’m your father and I have no idea what you like to eat.’

Wallace burped. ‘It’s okay, thanks. I’m full now.’

In the train, Mal sat opposite the boy and closed his eyes.

‘Will we crash?’ said Wallace loudly. Everyone in the carriage was looking at them. ‘They all crash, don’t they?’

Mal put on his sunglasses. ‘I hope so.’

‘Listen –’ Wallace had other concerns, but Mal was squeezing balls of wax as far into his ears as they’d go.

He could tell they’d arrived, the air was cooler and fresh. With renewed optimism, Mal carried their bags down to the front, telling Wallace how he’d always loved English seaside resorts and their semi-carnival feel. Such decay could provide a mesmeric atmosphere for a film. If Andrea decided to employ him, he wondered whether she might let him set up a cutting-room here. The family could stay. Wallace might like to visit.

They were both tired when they arrived at the small hotel, which smelled of fried bacon. They looked through into a sitting room full of enormous flower-patterned furniture, in which an old couple were playing Scrabble.

Wallace said, ‘Are you sure it’s only one night?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve lied to me before.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve lied about this whole thing.’

In their room, Mal opened the windows. He went out on to the balcony and smoked a joint while watching the untroubled people walking on the front. Wallace settled down on the bed with his Gameboy. Mal unpacked a change of clothes for Wallace and a couple of books on psychology for himself. He took a shower, opened a bottle of whisky and took a long draught.

When he could, Mal walked about naked in front of Wallace, showing him the stomach flopping above the thin legs, the weak grey pubic hair, the absurd boyish buttocks. Wallace needed to take him in, to see him, as Mal believed people in complete families did daily.

Lately, Mal had been unable to stop worrying about whether Wallace had something wrong with him. Perhaps a certain drug or psychiatrist might be of benefit. Yet Wallace had friends; he was doing better at school than Mal ever had. You couldn’t pathologise him for hating his father. For Mal, the strain was in having to work this out for himself. Recently he had been mulling over a memory from his student days of two acquaintances discussing R. D. Laing. At the time, he had been embarrassed by his ignorance and instinctively regarded what they said as pretentious, as showing off. But something about families and the impossibility of living within their contradictions, which made children mad, had stuck in his mind. Perhaps this was Wallace’s predicament. Was he the embodiment of his parents’ mistake, of their stupidity? Wasn’t Wallace somehow carrying all their craziness? What, then, could Mal do?

Mal lay on the bed next to him. ‘Wallace, will you cuddle me? Will you hold me and let me kiss you?’ But Wallace was trying to look elsewhere. Mal said, ‘Maybe you know your mother wouldn’t like you becoming close to me.’

‘She certainly thinks you is a great big fool.’

Mal shut his eyes but was too aware of Wallace to drift off. The joint was making him dreamy. He said, ‘I was – almost – a fool. I haven’t thought of this for a long time. When I was seventeen and my father had just died, I packed a few things and left home, leaving my mum, who never spoke to me, or to anyone much –’

Wallace looked up.

‘Was there something wrong with her?’

‘I couldn’t stay to find out. I had dyed my hair multi-coloured. I wore a slashed leather jacket and dirty trousers covered in straps and zips, and black motorcycle boots. I went to live in the back of a junk shop we’d broken into –’

‘Could the police have taken you to prison?’

‘If they’d found us. But we hid, smashing and burning the furniture for heat. We drank cider and took –’

‘You were drunk?’

‘A lot of the time.’

‘Did you fall down and hurt yourself?’

‘Often, yes. Except that my uncle, my father’s brother, who was recovering from heart surgery, climbed in through the window one day while we were asleep.’

‘Were you still drunk?’

‘He said that had my father been alive, he’d have been killed by how I was living. I guess I was that man’s lost sheep. He couldn’t rest until I was safe. You know that Bible story about the sheep?’

‘Sheep? I’ve seen
Chicken Run
.’

‘Right. The next day, my uncle took me to the local college and begged them to admit me. I didn’t want to go.’

‘You didn’t want to learn anything?’

‘I hated learning.’

‘At school, I’m on the top table.’

‘Excellent. My uncle said I could live at his house as long as I was at college. So I couldn’t drop out. One time in class, the teacher showed a film called
The 400 Blows
. I figured watching movies was better than work. This film was about a young, unhappy kid – like me, then – who didn’t get along with his mum and dad. I kept thinking it was like looking at a series of paintings. It was the first time that beauty had seemed to matter to me. I realised that if I could be involved in such work, I’d get a crack at happiness.’

Mal sat up and poured himself another drink.

Wallace said, ‘What happened then?’

‘That’s how I trained to be a film editor. It’s why we’re here today.’

The phone rang in the silence. Wallace answered.

‘Mum? Is that you?’

It was Andrea, downstairs. Mal started to put his clothes on. ‘Champ, we’d better go.’

‘Why should we? I don’t want her!’

Mal wanted to plead with the boy to be polite but knew it would make things worse.

Outside the hotel, Mal introduced Wallace to Andrea.

‘He’s my real daddy but not really,’ said Wallace.

‘You can only have one real daddy.’

Wallace was staring at her. She crouched down and showed him the ring through her nose.

‘You can touch it.’

He stroked it.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Nope. Well, it does now. I’ve got another one, called a stud.’ She put her tongue out.

‘Yuckie. What if you swallow it?’

‘See if you can grab it, Wallace.’

It was a good little game.

‘Can we go to the pier?’ asked Wallace.

Mal gave Wallace a five-pound note.

‘Of course.’

Wallace said to Andrea, ‘He’s going to start being all nice now you’re here.’

Wallace walked in front, doing karate kicks and shooting imaginary people. He made circular movements with his arms and hands which Mal recognised from rappers. Mal said that when he was a kid, he and his friends wanted to be ‘hard’, like the cockney criminals they’d heard about. Now the kids based themselves in fantasy on Jamaican–American ‘gangstas’.

On the pier, Wallace stopped suddenly to get down on his knees and peer through the wooden slats to the sea below.

‘Come on, gangsta,’ said Mal.

‘What if we fall through?’ said Wallace. ‘We could die down there.’

Andrea took his hand. ‘I’m quite a swimmer. I’d carry you to safety on my back, like a dolphin.’

Wallace disappeared into the hot, noisy arcades and began to dispose of his money. As they followed him, Andrea told Mal about the film, for which most of the finance was in place; she was rewriting the script. They had time to discuss the films they were currently thinking about when, to Mal’s surprise, Wallace said he wanted to go on the trampolines. His money was gone, but Andrea offered to pay for him. Wallace took off his shoes and jumped up and down, yelling.

‘A great kid,’ laughed Andrea. ‘Where did you get him?’

Mal sighed and described to Andrea what it had been like seeing his unwanted son for the first time. He told her what had happened since, and how things stood between them.

They filled Wallace with ice-cream and chocolate. When an argument developed about candyfloss and he used Mal’s phone to ring his mother and began weeping, Mal had to tell Andrea that Wallace was hungry.

They parted and Mal took the boy for fish and chips. In the hotel, Wallace refused a bath but at least got into his pyjamas. Mal set him up in front of the TV, where he became instantly absorbed. Mal would be able to slip the bottle of whisky into his pocket and open the door.